finding the nerve and pushing through
by RookieGinge
Summary: Oneshot, rated T. Sequel to 'not enough, yet still too much'. / She isn't sure what this means either, but she just knows that it's all because of her and those two little words.


_Disclaimer: I do not own Rookie Blue in any way._

_Rated T mostly to be safe, and because I'm paranoid._

_A/N: I know, I know, I'm an awful person. I ended up with no clue how to write this long awaited sequel, or even how I wanted to proceed ... honestly, I had nada, and I decided to take a break from Rookie Blue fanfiction while I hung my head in shame. But rest assured that I've been attempting to write it ever since I promised it; just to no avail. Again, so sorry._

_And another reason to hate me? I decided to cut this off just shy of 2000 words, and I plan to write a third and final part (;. Hopefully to be up in less time than this one took ... but I make no promises this time, sorry!_

_Wow, guys! The response to _never enough, yet still too much_ was astonishing and made me so happy! You all rock, seriously; and once more, I sincerely apologize for the wait._

_This one's angsty again, with no immediate happily ever after; just warning you. It's a slow progression, that just starts in this one._

_And without further adieu, I hope you enjoy!_

_-0-0-_

Its days before she can look him in the eyes. (Which, of course, makes working together awkward and near impossible. Thankfully nothing big happens for the first few shifts together afterwards, and she spends a day and a half tied to her desk dotting the 'I's and crossing the 'T's on the report for a bust she makes with Noelle.)

When she finally does work up the nerve to look him in the eyes and start speaking again, there's this tension that just won't be rid of (understandably, but sadly.) There's no easy rapport, no teasing or joking … she remembers their trip to Sudbury months ago; his terrible jokes when they stopped for food.

She won't admit it, but she misses it; things being easy between them. (Or as easy they had ever gotten back to after That Night, and before the day he told her about the Guns & Gangs position.) She misses him (despite hours a day spent with him on the job). She misses the pretense of being friends; of having the excuse to talk about things besides work.

It's like there's something missing inside of her … but she won't admit that, either.

-0-0-

The offer goes through; on the house. Luke's all smiles around her for days, chaste kisses like they're teenagers in high school (not to mention more impromptu visits to the observation deck of the interrogation room). There are boxes all around her place, just waiting to be packed full of her belongings and transported to their soon-to-be new home.

(She isn't as happy about it all as she's leading him to believe.)

She isn't quite sure what it means that all she can think about is Sam when she's about to move in together with Luke … but she's pretty sure it makes her a terrible person. (And that bothers her a lot less than it should, she thinks.)

-0-0-

Weeks pass, and he's still at the station. Then it's announced that Derek Scooter – one of the other guys who's been around the precinct a while, plenty of experience in his belt, always in and out of undercover assignments and big busts – is moving up to Guns & Gangs.

Sam smiles and shakes his hand lightly at the small congratulations/going-away party the station throws for him, avoiding – with natural skill and perfected technique – the curious glances shot his way from the people who know that _he_ was next in line for the job he's been working toward for years; not Scooter.

She isn't sure what this means either, but there's a small fluttering in her stomach and she just _knows_ that it's all because of her and those two little words. (Apparently she gave him _one good reason_ after all, even if she knows it still isn't _really_ enough.)

-0-0-

She wants to ask him about it.

Tell him that he should have taken his dream position and left her in the dust, because it's what she deserves. (Because she's too chicken to give up on a sure thing with Luke for something with the intensity she feels emanating from Sam's eyes whenever he looks at her; she isn't likely to ever be comfortable with the risk it presents). She's never going to be good enough for him, she knows, and she doesn't think she'll ever have the nerve to choose him.

He shouldn't be sticking around for some half-assed reason she should have just kept to herself.

(She hates that she's holding him back; hates that she's hurting him like this.)

But she doesn't even have the nerve to even bring it up. She's sure he can see the question in her eyes (because he's always been able to read her better than Luke ever will, no matter how hard he tries), but he doesn't offer up any explanation.

And she doesn't think she deserves one.

Maybe it's not even about her, after all.

(Yeah, she's not really buying that, either; but it's nice to think for a little while that she's not to blame.)

-0-0-

It's the day (well, night) before they're supposed to move in.

She's at her apartment (that's still hers until the end of the month, technically), at her own insistence. Luke wanted them to be together at his place tonight because everything she owns is already packed away, including her bed, but she said that one night wouldn't really make all that much difference if she spent it alone.

It makes all the difference, though.

She's sitting on the floor, wrapped in a fuzzy blanket with a skimpy old pillow – its cover severely yellowed from use – beside her, watching the light of a candle flame flickering against the wall, diluting the shadows and twisting them.

And she cries.

Her body's racked with sobs as she sits there, the candle burning down the wax until it shines no more. She doesn't know what time it is, or how long she's been crying, but she knows that she's run herself dry. She's exhausted and emotionally drained, and by every right her cognitive process should be shot to hell.

But she's never been so sure of anything in her life.

She can't go through with this.

-0-0-

Her mind stays made up in her sleep, and she's just as determined when she wakes up.

(But deciding is the simple part; now comes telling him.)

He swings by bright and early, just as previously planned. (Her boxes are still packed and stacked, and she has to get around to fixing that soon, but she knows that that would be a nasty way for him to find out that she's about to call it quits on him; on _them_.)

(She knew it would be hard, but she never knew he was going to make it even harder.)

He comes up behind her – having used his spare key to unlock the door – and wraps an arm around her waist while he presses a gentle kiss to her temple. She swallows thickly as he greets her warmly, turning around to face him and opening her mouth hastily.

"Luke, I …"

"Wait," he tells her, fishing around in his pocket, "just a minute. I have something I need to say … well, _ask_ … first."

Before she knows it there's a small, navy blue velvet-covered box in his hands, and she can't believe this is happening. His lips part as he starts talking, about how amazing she is, how much he loves her … she just wants him to stop talking. Because she_ isn't_ amazing, actually, and he's about to see that for himself (and God, this can't be happening right now; it just _can't_.)

He falls silent, and she knows she's missed the big question itself. But it doesn't matter, because he's holding a diamond ring out before her and she knows exactly what he just said without having to actually hear it. She takes a deep breath, steeling herself before blurting out:

"I can't!"

His face falls when what she's said registers, and this is killing her as much as it's killing him, she's sure. But she _can't_ do this. She can't live a lie and say I love you to him anymore; she can't lead him along when he'll never measure up to the person she _does_ love. (The _other_ person she doesn't even come close to deserving.) "It's what I was trying to tell you before …"

She trails off because he's still shell-shocked, and so is she. (She never imagined that he'd come in and _propose_ to her. She never wanted to let him down like this.)

"Can't marry me, or can't move in with me, or … or what, Andy?" His voice is a little choked up, but there's still hope coloring his tone … and she hates it, because she has to end this now and he's not making it any easier on either of them by being optimistic and thinking that this could still be salvaged. It _can't_; it really can't.

"I can't be with you anymore."

Her words hang in the air, and they sound harsher than she meant them to be (yet more broken at the same time).

"You're an amazing person, Luke, and this would be perfect if it wasn't for … for me."

The fact that she falters there is exactly the reason that it can't work out; because she isn't exactly sure that she set out to say 'me' originally. She's terrified that she was about to say someone else's name, actually. And that uncertainty, that doubt … is why she can't do this.

She can't go into anything like this knowing that she isn't capable of fully committing to him. (And she'll never be able to with Sam in the picture, however abstractly.)

There's not much to be said after that. He doesn't even ask why, because he knows. He's always seen it, even if he'd never allowed himself to wonder or put too much thought into it; even before he found that little glass jar with Swarek's name on it. He's heartbroken and makes his retreat as quickly as he can, which she's grateful for.

There's more to be sorted out, of course … like the house, in particular … but that can wait. It will _have _to wait; until they're capable of sitting down and having a decent, rational conversation (which might not be any time soon).

The door slams shut behind him, and she sighs, leaning against the wall and closing her eyes. She feels like she's been crying for days instead of hours, but if there were any tears left in her she'd no doubt be crying her heart out some more.

She spends a lot of time like that – eventually sliding down to sit on the floor, wrapping her arms around her legs, and resting her head on her knees; most of the day, actually. She debates standing up and unpacking, or calling Traci, or – at the very least – getting food … _something_.

But she's really just not up to it.

She'd like to spend as much time as she can like this; feeling more numbness than pain, and thinking about nothing and everything all at once.

So she does.

Because she did it; it hurts like hell on the inside, and she's a terrible person for leading him on and then crushing him, but she did it. She ended it the way she should have months ago. She finally stopped lying to him, to everyone … and to herself.

It's a startling realization she has – when the sun's going down and she's just thinking about crawling back over to her candle, blanket, and pillow for sleep – that as horrible as it all was … it was just another easy part to get through in comparison to the whole picture.

Because she's more miserable, and barely one step closer to any kind of closure.

And still not one bit of it comes even close to being enough.

_-0-0-_

_Please review, it would mean the world to me! And it might give my muse more motivation (;. Just saying ..._


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